


May I?

by thegreatgayjatsby



Category: 1776 (1972)
Genre: Ben Franklin is a rumor spreading jerk, Dancing, Edward Rutledge really misses dancing, John Adams is a good dancer, John and Edward dance and Edward is lascivious, M/M, Mentions of Franklin/Dickinson/Abigail, Romantic Themes
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-03-08
Updated: 2016-03-08
Packaged: 2018-05-25 13:25:55
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,528
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6196750
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/thegreatgayjatsby/pseuds/thegreatgayjatsby
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>In which Edward Rutledge burns for the dancehalls of his beloved Carolina home, Ben Franklin spreads tales of John Adams' dancing skills, and John Adams takes Edward Rutledge on a dance.</p>
            </blockquote>





	May I?

**Author's Note:**

> this fandom is dead and i am in hell pls help me

Ben Franklin’s inability to curb his own speech had gotten John Adams in trouble multiple times before, and this was no different. Ben spoke, the next morning, in Congress, on John’s quality dancing skills, detailing how the Massachusetts delegate swept Thomas Jefferson’s wife around. Thomas had heard the tale from his wife, and how she had giggled so at John’s stuffy style of movement. 

Edward, of course, heard all of this. Dancing had been something he had enjoyed since he was quite young. Although he was used to leading, he had spent many an evening after imbibing in the back alleys of Charleston in a pair of tan breeches and a white shirt, being lead about himself by those of a lesser class. He had to admit, he enjoyed being drawn about the dancefloor by others. 

The South Carolinian, in short, was interested in what Adams had to offer. He approached the man during their lunch break, following him down the steps of the hall and onto the street. “Mr. Adams, suh, a moment of your time?” He called, heels clicking against the cobblestones. 

Adams paused, turning to glance briefly over his shoulder. “If you must.” It was well known that Adams retired to a small garden during his lunch break, and Edward hoped for him to follow his habit on this day.

Ever predictable, John headed straight to his usual haunt, a small grotto featuring an apple tree, some bushes, a bench, and a fountain. The door swung shut behind them audibly, and Edward leaned sultrily against the frame. 

“How can I help you, Mr. Rutledge?” John asked, settling onto the bench and plucking an apple from the branches of the tree above him. 

“It seems I’ve heard quite the interesting comment about you from mouth of Mr. Franklin, Mr. Adams.” Rutledge responded, moving from the gate and sauntering over to the bench to sit. 

“Is that so?” Adams took a bite of his apple, chewing thoughtfully before taking a sideways look at Rutledge. 

“It is so, suh.” Edward drawled in that honeyed tone of his, rather banking on his Southern accent sending a slight jolt through Adams. The way he spoke was devilish, to put it lightly. The man was desirable, and he was very much aware of that fact. 

Adams, however, had a wife, Abigail, at home, and although he burned, he was certain he could abstain from Rutledge’s charm -- unlike Dickinson, the thrice-damned snake. John took a moment to consider his reply, then sighed and took another bite of his apple as Rutledge continued to speak.

“You see, down in the Deep South, we are rather fond of holding galas and other such delightful get-togethers.” Edward began, looking like a cat in the cream as he basked in the dappled sunlight filtering through the leaves of the apple tree.

John was hesitant to allow him to continue, but Edward either didn’t notice the Massachusetts delegate’s reluctance, or didn’t care. He spoke on. 

“And these get-togethers, Mr. Adams, are known for their dances. And this mornin’ I heard that you’re quite the dancer.” Edward was up to something, that much, Adams knew. The South Carolinan never got a man alone without some sort of lecherous idea in his mind. 

“Apparently, Mr. Franklin doesn’t know how to keep his big mouth shut.” Adams said sharply. He had to admit, whether he liked it or not, he was lonely. Abigail wasn’t here, and John wasn’t there. Edward was here, though, with John, lascivious as always and forever wanton. And not to mention, pretty in the way Southern belles were. Not as hardy or stern as his Abby, but delicate and honeyed in a completely different but still very attractive way. 

“Well,” Edward continued, ignoring Adams’ interjection completely. “You see, I miss these dances. They’re in my blood, and you know how a man aches for the desires of his home.” Edward leaned slightly closer, and John smelled the lavender and sweetgrass on him. Perfume of a woman. 

Adams stayed as still as possible, as a man faced with a beast in the woods without a firearm. Perhaps if he didn’t move, Rutledge would get bored and leave him alone -- like a predator who had grown tired of toying with his prey. But alas, such hopes were in vain, because he simply kept talking. John tuned him out, thinking on his own dancing. He did enjoy it, the slow waltz or minuet, or the lively jig, twirling his partner about the room.

John’s attention was only drawn back to Rutledge when he leaned in again, batting lashes over doey eyes. The words he spoke went completely over John’s head, so he cleared his throat. “I beg your pardon, Mr. Rutledge?” He asked, throat tight, distracted by the feminine sweep of powder on Edward’s face.

“I said,” Edward repeated, batting his lashes again and plumping out his bottom lip, “May you grant me the honor of leading me in a dance? I so miss it.” 

His voice was sweet and as innocent as possible, his lilting accent guiding his words into a musical sort of tone. Adams took a sharp breath. A dance, nothing more. Thank God. Edward was known to proposition members of Congress for much more than a simple dance. 

Apple finished by now, Adams tossed the core into the bushes and wiped his hands briefly on his handkerchief. He looked Edward up and down with pursed lips, and found himself admiring the curve of Rutledge’s body as he lounged on the bench, pleading with soft eyes. 

“Good God.” He sighed out, standing and setting his cane aside. “Very well. A dance, nothing more.”

Edward practically lept to his feet, loosening his cravat and sliding it off. His frock coat followed his cravat to the bench, but Adams stayed fully clothed, as proper as always. The Southerner stepped closer, offering himself, his body language completely submissive. John had to admit, the gentle attitude looked better on him than the usual predatory gazes he carried about. 

John took Edward’s proffered hand, delicately lifting it to his lips and placing a soft kiss upon the back of Edward’s knuckles, as he would unto any other partner. He bowed, and Edward curtsied, lifting his hands daintily and still presenting as feminine as possible while wearing trousers. He briefly reached up and released his hair from the ribbon it was held in, sending golden locks cascading down to his shoulders. 

Slowly, John reached for him, placing one hand on Edward’s waist and using the other to take his hand. Edward gave his fingers a slight squeeze, completely relaxed in the position of the woman in a dance. John took the first step forward, and Edward closed his eyes, seeming to melt into the cadence of the dance. 

The Bostonian led his fellow delegate about the small garden with short, even steps, guiding Edward into a small twirl as they turned towards the gate. Edward held a faint smile upon his lips, white shirt gleaming under the sun. John found himself amused at the Southerners complete delight in a simple dance, and spun him again, bringing him closer.

Edward was pleased in the lessening gap between them, allowing John to slow the dance so they were barely moving, chests touching. Edward looked at John for a moment to gauge the other’s reaction, then rested his cheek against John’s shoulder, having to stoop slightly to do so but doing so nonetheless. 

John found his hand sliding further down on Edward’s waist, his thumb caressing the small patch of skin visible in the split of his shirt above his breeches. Edward shivered slightly, letting out a breath of air against John’s neck. John stopped himself, concentrating completely on the routine of the dance. Edward seemed happy either way, and went next to limp in John’s hold, arms leaving the proper dancing hold to wind about John’s neck as they swayed.

John hesitated for a moment, then cupped both of Edward’s hips in his hands, guiding the other to move with him. Edward hummed softly to himself, some Southern jaunty, and one of John’s hands slid up his back, ruffling his shirt and embedding in Edward’s hair. The Southerner’s humming hitched up on octave, and he nuzzled under John’s ear, leaving a soft kiss there. 

Regretfully, John took a step away from Edward, forcing him to stand straight as he removed all contact. “The delight of dancing with you was all mine, Mr. Rutledge. Perhaps we can do this again, to actual music.” John said quickly, so as not to upset Edward. 

Edward nodded, the hurt from having the dance ended so abruptly leaving his face. “I thank you, then, John. I needed that reminder of my roots. I would love to have another dance with you sometime.” He smiled, all pleasure and indecency. 

John felt his breath catch, and then, Edward was gone, sweeping up his cravat and frock coat and striding across the garden, the gate swinging shut behind him with an air of finality. With a curt nod to himself, John found his sense of burning had intensified tenfold. Damn that man.


End file.
